


Simetria

by TokioSunset



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (or specify which chapter could be M), Dystopia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Light Angst, Pre-Canon, Romance, Sci-Fi, Tsundere, might change to M rating, slow-burn bonding, this ship gets no love but I am here and I got you!, which changes into heavy angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokioSunset/pseuds/TokioSunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A break-in at Vishkar headquarters results in a development which could endanger the corporation forever. Luckily for them, the leader of the freedom fighters is a merciful man and is willing to spare them under one condition - three dates with Vishkar's finest architech. In this clash of ideologies and a mess of hidden intentions, the relationship between two people can mean the difference between a utopia and a civil war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After taking a long hard look at the lore and backstories, I decided that there was too much going on in pre-canon Rio de Janeiro to leave it untouched. I hope you enjoy this sci-fi romance. Frankly, I'm excited to write it!

Malachite was definitely not her color. 

She huffed and brushed her hair back, for the umpteenth time that morning. Her dress was too tight in some places and too loose in others, making it impossible to move as she wanted. Perhaps it shrunk. Perhaps it loosened. Perhaps it stayed the same; rendered uncomfortable by every fiber of her being which screamed and begged her not to go through with the outing. 

There was no point in arguing with the superior forces of Vishkar. If they wanted something done, they would get it done. At that moment, she was lucky to be informed that she was the pivotal point of the scheme.

No. Not a scheme, she reminded herself. A response to blackmail.

With a wayward glance into her mirror, she frowned at what she looked like. Granted hard light was hardly the most reflective material; the light reflected off of it was saturated in blue. Blue drapes, blue windows, blue malachite. Her head shook as she scrutinized herself. “Satya, what are you doing?”

Cursing once, she threw the dress off of her body and placed it back on the hanger. Her fingers were swift and impatient; she caught herself crinkling the dress and tried her hardest to iron it out. No luck – linen fabric was a goner once wrinkled. Some could grin and bear it, wear it as though nothing happened. Satya, however, would always feel the ridge on the shoulder, lifted above the rest of her. A heavy sigh escaped her.

It had been so long since she wore clothing made out of actual fabric such as linen and silk. Her architech uniform was tidy, practical, and most importantly, made entirely out of hard light. Wearing it outside was frowned upon, however. The citizens of Rio de Janeiro detested it so much that they actively sought to destroy it. Hooligans, she thought and frowned. The thought of the loud, jeering, reeking masses made the thought of her upcoming outing no more pleasant.

She sighed and reminded herself that, if the Gods were good, the arrangement should be finished within the week. 

Since the malachite gown could not be dematerialized, it would need to be incinerated. Making a replica out of it would do her no good. Aside from the fact that those… those ruffians could sniff out hard light like bloodhounds, abilities of architechs were limited to producing items the color of cyan, with very little variation concerning the hue. She had enough of blue items. Her chamber had an air of drowning in the sea.

She carefully set the gown atop her oval-shaped bed, making sure its hem did not touch the floor. Then, taking long strides which could only be described as anxious, she opened her closet wide and sorted through the array of identical dresses. Her mechanical fingers shifted through them. Seventeen hard light gowns and something hot pink. Eyes burned at the sight of it, but she knew it was her only option.

One week. She could handle that much. 

At the very least, the garment fit her marginally better than the malachite one. 

There was little love added to getting dressed. Thigh-high stockings rolled up her leg, and she snapped the elastic against the hard skin so they wouldn’t slip. Silver boots came up to her knees, and as she rolled the toes against the hard white floor, she felt relieved that the issue of her bare legs was taken care of. The man she was about to meet was a lecherous foe, surely. She would offer him as little eye candy as possible. The gown itself was cut on both sides; embellished with a golden trim to ensure onlookers noticed the lack of coverage. She would never understand the fashion – but it was something the women wore on outings like these.

Outing, she thought coldly. Outing, outing, outing. The more she said the word, the less impact it had. This was a security briefing and a meeting with a terrorist. Nothing more. She added a pair of dangling earrings to frame her visage, and considered bringing a photon projector with her. It was a smooth but heavy contraption; entirely noticeable. The man specifically stated; no weapons and no guards. For the "no guards" part, she had to scoff. Guards were everywhere in Rio; in each corner and watchtower, keeping the peace and bringing order to the masses. Not being watched was wishful thinking. As for the "no weapons" rule, she was willing to honor it to a degree. The photon projector stayed at home; in case Lúcio failed to keep up with his own demands, her razor-sharp heels would be put to good use.

She never killed unless it was essential to her survival. Still, she considered his unimpressive height, and how decapitation would prove to be fairly easy. This thought satisfied her, bringing her heart rate down.

She strode out of her living room with long, confident steps. Her standing was almost regal; achieved by people with murder on their minds. What occupied her thoughts was not vengeance or a bloodbath; it was simply a reminder of her duty to the company which made her world a better place. She would serve them to the bitter end, no matter how unsavory her assignments.

And so, after one final smoothing of her gown, Satya Vaswani marched out of the apartment complex, where her companion awaited her.

His big eyes rolled up and down her face; from the sharp eyebrows to the no-nonsense pout. Since he wasn’t blind, his gaze fell on the thin strip of skin on her upper thighs. That was when he whistled, and Satya could feel her blood curdle.

“Wow. Lookin’ good, criancinha.”

"Don't... don't ever say that to me again."

He seemed genuinely impressed by her appearance, if not even surprised. His head ticked to the side, onto the busy street. In the center of Rio, among the elegantly-dressed populace, the freedom fighter drew much attention. In hushed whispers, the people hurried as they walked behind him, and only a handful managed to notice Satya as he jutted out his arm for her to hold it.

She observed his proffered elbow. “No thank you. Do not try to touch me.”

The native offered an open-palmed shrug. “Fair enough. I’m still surprised you agreed to this at all.”

“You gave us no choice but to humor your demands.”

“Mm-hm.” He crossed his arms over his chest; his stance wide. It seemed as though the gears in his mind turned to form a retort, but in the end, there was nothing to say. She agreed to see him, at least. Neither of them needed to enjoy the company. Without further delay, he turned on his heel and looked ahead. Half a dozen staring by-passers averted their eyes and pretended to develop a keen interest in the ground and sky. “Now then… Satya, was it? Do you like coffee? I was thinkin’ we should get some coffee.”

Her head bobbed as a sign of approval. She followed the shorter man across the finely-trimmed garden of her apartment complex, and into the city. Grass and hard light transformed into concrete and automation; an imperfect technology Vishkar tried to change. In time, she hoped, they would create the perfect, most functional society.

But before she could see that happen, she would have to meet this terrorist twice more.

An angry eye looked to the sky. She prayed that this week would be short.


	2. How We Got Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we begin to describe how Satya got into her compulsory dating predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a dystopian sci-fi without some dystopia going on. In which some back-story is added as a flavour.  
> Note: artistic license aside, I'll remind you this story is my version of pre-canon, so while the characters' abilities and weapons are influenced heavily by their in-game aesthetic, I may have taken some liberties which will be explained further in the story.  
> As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated. Enjoy!

_Three days earlier_

 

Lúcio took a deep breath; arms stretched behind him as his chest lifted to the blue sky. Birds chirped softly in the summer breeze, the sun shone atop the Vishkar towers; gold over cyan over the green of Rio. The city never slept, and it thrived in the summer heat. One deep intake of fresh air and Lúcio was ready to fly as a bird. His fingers pushed back his thick dreadlocks, and he continued to look at the clear skies with his palms on the back of his head.

No pressure. No worries.

All he needed to do was break into a maximum-security facility and sneak away with protected corporate Intel. Pressure? What pressure?

His nostrils widened before he exhaled, enraptured. “I love the smell of rebellion in the morning.”

“Yeah, well,” said Carlos – a portly young man with a shorn head - “less sniffin’, more breakin’.”

“A guy’s gotta enjoy the sights once in a while.” He shrugged, ignoring the annoyed looks which drilled the back of his neck. Rebels were often an impatient bunch, but there was much to learn from them. The people forced to live as animals seldom had patience for their corrupted masters. Lúcio understood them better than anyone.

There was still unspeakable satisfaction in watching a building one sought to destroy. He grinned at it as he picked up a cumbersome boombox from the ground. He adjusted it on his shoulder; his gloved hand slack over the colored dials and switches. If somebody looked at him from the tall windows of that building, they would see a twenty-something lad lost on his way to the skate park. Oh, but they’d underestimate him. His looks were flashy, yes, but hid an idealist with a flaming heart – the most dangerous kind of man.

He rolled on his heel and faced the handful of revolutionaries who followed him. “Now remember – no killing unless absolutely necessary. We want to drive Vishkar out – not end up on some watch list.”

A skinny skater plagued with scoliosis scratched his head and scoffed. His mouth was covered by a green bandanna, and as he pulled it out to speak, he revealed a scorched chin and scarred cheek. “They ain’t carin’ ‘bout killing us when they set the favela on fire.”

“That’s exactly why we absolutely can’t kill these people. We have to be better than they are – otherwise there’s no point. Always keep in mind that the people working there are actual human beings. Remember – we’re fighting the man, not the men.”

A phlegm the size of a quarter fell by Carlos’ feet. “So what’s the plan, then? We spook ‘em?”

“Pretty much. Gather whatever incriminating evidence you can, smash everything in sight and generally cause confusion so they absolutely need to speak with us. That’s when we finish our mission – when they come to us for negotiations!”

“And howdja propose we fight off a hundred architechs with photon blasters?”

The scoliosis-ridden boy grew red in the eyes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, photon blasters?! Ain’t nobody told me there was gonna be blasters!”

“Guy, relax,” Lúcio said with more idleness than confidence. “We can handle this.”

“Yeah? What makes you so sure?”

A cocky grin split the side of his stubbly face. His in-the-know smile spoke volumes, and before he faced the headquarters again, he patted the boombox on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it.” His brilliant eyes stared at the construction of cyan hard light, stealing the glory of the sun, the mountains, and the summer sky. Brazil would level Vishkar to the ground, and if he needed to tear away at its foundation, so be it.

His neck cracked as he turned it to the side. The casual demeanor was gone, and a hotheaded freedom fighter took over. “A’ight, boys. Let’s kick ass.”

/***/

Chaos rained from above.

First the security cameras were black; smeared with spray paint. The security saw young men; four or five of them, dressed in the colors of the Brazilian flag. They climbed walls, skated along them, blasting loud music and shattering all in sight. Red was not a common color in Vishkar. Alarms burst into a cacophonous wail. Lasers and flashing lights blinded and assaulted the eyes. Satya dropped her cup of coffee to the ground, clutching her ears as her eyes shut tight. The entire building seemed to crumble. The marching of security guards and thundering music tore her brain in half.

“What’s happening?!” Sanjay asked through the din.

“We have an intruder!”

“Intruders!””

Satya’s head seemed to crack; her skull breaking away with each wail. The earpiece in her head drummed commands and information, and she barely refrained from tearing it away from her ear. With a flick of the wrist, the earpiece was switched off. Agile fingers fluttered about her face and created a strip of cyan light, acting as a visor. The colors blended into soothing monochrome; even the sound made her less nauseous. Her eyes wandered into the corridor, finally at ease.

However, the crisis was just beginning. Sanjay helped her to her feet; his one hand at his wrist and another around her waist. “Move out!” He yelled behind his shoulder. “Don’t let them escape! Satya,” he said, his voice softer than when he bellowed commands, “can you stand?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll have to run.” Without as much as a second glance, his uniform molded into the sort worn by agents on clandestine missions; robes with a golden trim, visors and pointed headphones. Satya watched his back and nodded at his orders. Her palms clasped tightly together, she allowed the hard light to consume her clothes, form them into an outfit she wore as the company’s most successful agent – Symmetra, they called her, and her codename echoed in her ear. Sanjay sounded no less authoritative, even though his voice shook with anger.

“Symmetra! They’re scaling the walls! Go east!”

 _The walls?_ “On my way!”

She ran as a cheetah through the corridors which burned with flashing lasers. She passed rooms with unhinged doors, broken windows, scattered paperwork and badly-bruised workers. In the mayhem, she managed to realize two things. One, the attack was without a goal. Whoever these rebels were, their only cause for vandalism was a skewed display of disobedience. There was no drawer unturned, no wall left clean of graffiti. The leader of the group gave them no orders aside from “go crazy”.

The second thing she realized was who their leader was.

He happened to zoom across the wall; the room pulsated as he went, and each beat wrecked her body. Her mechanical arm lifted up a shield – she bore her teeth at the ruffian. Though she could not see his face, she saw his brilliant eyes. Filled with fury and determination, they seemed to almost mock her as he passed by. As the cascade of pulse faded, she sped towards him, ignoring the hiss in her ear.

 One of those hooligans must have adjusted the frequency of the station. The headphones produced an agonizing noise which made her head spin. A hand pressed down on her left ear as though on impulse. This made the ringing worse. The high pitch grew louder and louder; she felt bile build up in her throat. Dematerializing the hard light, she discarded her visor and headphones. She only ran for a second in the red lights before she reached a balcony.

Her raw ear felt like it was bleeding; the left side of her head felt swollen and pained. The hooligan chuckled at her from behind his green scarf. His boombox sat on his shoulders; both of his hands rested on the booming speakers. Faster than a speeding bullet, he jumped on the metal rails and sped down the wall of the building. “Cacth me if you can!” He cried as she ran up to the railing.

One look down, and he made it halfway to the bottom. “Stop! In the name of Vishkar!”

With smooth, looping motions of her arms, she created a path upon the air. Cyan panels, sturdy as a bridge, lead her down and to the side, twisting at an angle until she and the hooligan were on eye level. Granted he was much faster, he never expected her to actually keep up. Rolling down the side of the wall, he looked over to see Symmetra at his tail; her expression pure rage and her legs crashing down on the mid-air pathway.

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Oh, shit.” He kicked the side of the wall and sped faster, leaving Symmetra in the dust.

She followed, maneuvering over the windows which blared out flashing lights and electro music. The noise made her head feel like shrinking, and it was sole determination which kept her from crashing her hands on her ears forever. The ruffian was within her grasp; it was her obligation to take hold of him and bring him into custody. Almost circling around the entire tower, they continued to come and go from each other’s field of vision.

The weight of the boombox made the ruffian stumble. His feet kicked; he twisted in the air, and before he was able to plummet a digit came down on the fast-forward button on his machine.

The song which blasted was a strong, heavy rhythm which quickened his blood. Hi eyes went wide as his pupils grew small. He made it to the balcony; the second tower, flying across the air as a stone from a slingshot. His descent was sped up, reversed, manipulated as he liked. As he soared across the air, Symmetra watched with her mouth ajar. The display crushed her ribcage, and the urge to shout out “That isn’t fair!” grew within her.

Furious then, she growled and blasted photons from her extended arm. They struck the hooligan, burning the fabric of his clothes and catching fire on his thick locks. All he needed to do was whip his hair and put it out; the dreads which looked like exposed wires flew in the wind as he rolled away.

At that moment, nothing mattered. The damage to the company’s asset no longer mattered. The four other hooligans in the building did not matter. Sanjay, Rio, Vishkar – nothing mattered, not even for a second, not even for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Symmetra could only focus on one thing.

The hooligan made her look like a fool.

And Satya. Was. No. Fool.

She bridged the gap between herself and the nearest window as soon as she recognized where the hooligan went. The second building was the conference tower; a glorious construction that the workers of Vishkar could enter in one way only. As soon as she found her feet on the ground, she brought a lotus-shaped construction from the ground up, and watched it spin into life. White metal, just like the sort on her arm, sleek and polished to perfection. The machine whirred to life, and she walked into it as though she was not in the middle of a mad chase.

“Teleporter online,” she said to herself, face smug.

In a flash - an oval, cyan flash which for a second transformed her into a being of pure light - she was in the building. The hooligan took off his scarf; it now hung around his neck, doing nothing to hide his identity. Perhaps he expected that he would escape her by then. He stumbled back, jolting as he saw her appear out of thin. The confusion made it possible for her to examine her features; his smooth nose flattened over his angular face. His lips were thin, stretched in a smile even then. Every small line, each shadow falling on his visage, even the soul-patch on his rounded chin screamed of innocent idealism; the kind she forgot existed in the world she knew. Short, full eyebrows came up, and he bore the resemblance of a puppy caught in the act of shredding a throw pillow to pieces. 

Satya could say many negative things about him at the time of their chase. His appearance, however, was nothing to slander.

“Where’d you come from?!” His body contorted, fearing impact from her photons.

Symmetra put her flat palms in front of her face in a warm, placating manner. Her voice was light and soft, as though she was approaching a shy and timid animal. Every small footstep resulted in the Brazilian stepping back. She persevered in her attempt to soothe him.

“Stay calm. I do not want to hurt you. Stay where you are. We can solve this peacefully.”

No luck.

The hooligan ran up to the window and jumped.

“NO!”

She ran up to the window and looked outside – a god number of police cars, firefighters, ambulance vehicles came down to surround the building. A mass of civilians gathered around the tower, a low chatter surrounding the air above them. The patrol cars flashed red and blue lights straight into Symmetra’s eyes. She shielded them with a flattened palm.

_Great. It’s not like I didn’t want another headache._

No matter what she saw, she did not see the hooligan. He was nowhere to be seen; not on the walls, not splattered on the ground, nowhere near the adjacent tower. Her impulse to catch him turned to impulse to find him; her eyes scanned the crowd of on-lookers, wondering if she could see him among them.

A mess of dreadlocks flashed in front of her face; followed by his lopsided, self-assured grin. The man swung upside-down inchs away from her – the sight of him almost gave her a heart attack.

“Hey, baby. Lookin’ for me?”

She looked. She blinked twice. Her teeth grit together and she attempted to pull him back inside by his collar. He was much lighter than she expected.

She was much stronger than _he_ expected.

“Whoa, baby, slow down! At least let me buy ya dinner first.”

“Stop calling me baby!”

“Can I call you buttercup?”

Symmetra grimaced; her body convulsed in terror and disgust. He took this answer as refusal.

“How 'bout pussycat?”

“… what?”

“Lamb-chop?”

“You–!”

“Darling? C’mon. That one’s a classic, ain't it, darling?”

“STOP SAYING WORDS!”

“Aww. Can I say just one more?” His voice was soft, like a cat’s mew. It intrigued and disgusted her in equal measure.

“Which one?” She asked, not knowing what to expect.

“PARKOUR!”

He pulled himself out of her grasp and climbed up into the window above. He took the boombox from the sill and placed it on his shoulder. As Symmetra created a hard light path and stepped from the window herself, she could see him grasping a curtain rail. He built up momentum, moving to and fro, until he shouted the word and flipped upwards, out of her reach.

He landed on his feet and zoomed sideways over the wall.

The crowd at the bottom responded with thundering applause. If Symmetra was mad before, she was damn pissed now. She cast a field of light and walked up it as she tried to reach the revolutionary, blood pumping in her veins.

Before setting foot into this chase, she was a strong believer in not killing anybody unless the situation called for it. Now, however, after encountering this pest, all bets were off.

He moved up another floor and pressed a grey square on his boombox. His eyes suddenly grew dim as he skated across the side of the wall; the machine above his head. Symmetra ran up to the top, ignoring the music. Nothing existed in the world apart from the two of them; the hooligan and the agent who would take him down. He was a menace, she thought. He deserved what was coming to him. With her arm extended, she shot photon particles into his body. The specks of light carried through the air – speeding at him, rushing his head –!

That was when they burst into nothingness as they approached the thick barrier of sound.

Symmetra could not believe it.

She fired again, blasting and cursing, wanting at least one hit to strike him. The light dissolved, and he remained seated with a shit-eating grin. It amused him, to see her struggle with something she couldn’t comprehend. Then, in an instance of pure, unbridled sadism, he turned up the volume.

The hard light bridge under her legs began to crumble.

She stepped back, only to see there was nothing to step on. Distorted, broken apart, the light switched from hard cyan into soft transparency. Symmetra stood on air, balancing on a square which became smaller the longer she stood. Her hands could create no more light; the reality was set in stone. The chatter of the crowd below her turned to loud gasps. It was then that she realized that she was in danger.

Sweat broke out from her brow and her knees shook – she looked at the hooligan with wide, pleading eyes, as if to say, _you made your point, you can distort reality, now let me go!_

He turned the volume up and watched her plummet. His hand waved a small goodbye just before she finished her descent.


	3. The Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lúcio proposes his ultimatum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two and we're closing in on the prologue. I'm the kind of writer who points you to a spot marking the beginning and then... runs circles around it reaching the spot herself. Enjoy this next installment!

Satya recalled the sensation of bouncing.

Arms flailed in the air; her dress moved like waves as she came down, then up, and down again. Trapped within a vacuum, jumping on a trampoline, it was hard to distinguish what caused the stir which rippled her skin. The commotion outside mate it no easier to concentrate. Her world fell into blue skies, red sirens, and the constant, excited chatter of onlookers. Eyelashes fluttering, she awoke from her state which was somewhere between a nap and a coma.

Her hip leaned to the side as she rubbed the sand from her eyes. Human hand pressing on the ground, she could only think of pliancy. Whatever she hit, whatever she landed on, was not ground as much as it was a stretched-out membrane.

Plagued with questions, her head spun under the weight of the situation. Where did she land? Why were her clothes torn? Why was the structure of the tear molten plastic instead of cut fabric? With a smooth, fluid motion across her chest, she mended her gown. At least one mystery was put to rest – she was still in control of her light-bending abilities. The answer to that was doubt was welcome, but rose several other issues.

She looked up at the tower to see that the terrorist was gone.

She looked down and saw the safety net he placed below them; thick sheets painted like the Brazilin flag, canopying the area.

The phrase _Ordem e Progresso_ was stretched out across a blue globe, and she found herself walking backwards as she read the phrase. An ironic message she thought – order and progress, yet there was nothing orderly about rebellion; nothing progressive against fighting an established conglomerate. White stars, a rhombus yellow as the sun, laid across a bright green pasture which broke the monotony of cyan. The flag itself was amateurish; done in spray paint by some hoodlums. What surprised her was the dedication to the work – the sheet stretched out thirty feet, and was tied to high-light pillars, establishing a bridge between two towers.

A sudden realization made Satya gulp. If the giant flag were not set under her, the fall would have ended her career as an architech.

Unsteady heeled boots crossed the quaking sheet. She looked up at the too-bright sun. A shadow fell over her as the helicopters flew above, filming the aftermath. Squinting, she formed a thin, light-obfuscating visor across her eyes. Whoever just threatened the stability of Vishkar had a message in mind; not mindless destruction.

Well, she thought as she looked at the media circus forming overhead, they succeeded in creating a story.

No doubt Vishkar would be painted as a villain.

/***/

Meanwhile, somewhere in the western favelas, the boarded windows rattled as a truck swerved into an alley. Frantic cheers and honking filled the air, followed by a string of curses from the neighbors. The Toads – a small, independent freedom fighting crew – drove into their headquarters.

The headquarters being, of course, Lúcio’s family home.

They stepped inside, flinging the doors wide open. Lúcio’s father greeted them with a basket of laundry in his hands. Loud folk music flushed the living room, which was painted primarily in oranges and greens. Botted plants hung weakly towards the dusty floor, the walls were cracked and smelled of moist stones. The drab environment changed in an instant as soon as the Toads stepped inside, bringing raucous merriment.

Carols and Lúcio greeted their father by name. The rest of the crew either ignored the greeting or replaced it with a curt nod. The old man shook his head; tresses of salt-and-pepper hair fluttered about his wrinkled features. “You better not get in any trouble,” he commented and hoisted the bright blue basket into the bathroom.

The five guys entered Lúcio’s room and shut the door behind them.

“WOOO!” Andre cried out, his posture better than ever as he pumped his fists in the air. “Safe!”

Removing scarves and bandanas, the guys settled where they pleased. Since Lúcio’s bedroom was a small cluttered mess, there were not many options concerning comfort. If one didn’t mind the rank clothing, they could lounge on the bed. If they had no trouble with trying to stand up for half an hour, they settled in the beanbag chair in the corner. Carlos took that privilege, first sitting on it as upon a throne before he sank into it like a ragdoll. Others were left to their own devices, standing against the wall or trying to sit on Lúcio’s DJ-ing booth – which he discouraged with every fiber of his being.

The room itself was much messier than the resto of his home, but it provided a quiet, more urban air. Walls were coated with egg cartons for sound isolation, painted black for the aesthetic. The name of his crew was spelled out on the ceiling in holographic neon graffiti, and Andre insisted that his work was worthy of Leonardo’s Sistine chapel (nobody had the heart to tell him Leonardo had nothing to do with it). There was not an inch of space without dirty clothes or cans of assorted beverages; legend had it that within that room, a pair of matching socks could be found.

Lúcio stood behind his booth and took off the heavy boombox from his shoulder. He cracked it place and rolled his elbow to regain some feeling in his arm. “I’ll never get used to how heavy that thing is.” Handing over the instrument to the guy lying on the bed, he picked up a pair of headphones and pressed them against the side of his head. A look of concentration flashed in his eyes, and as he caressed a couple of buttons on his booth, a quiet yet empowering beat blasted from the corner speakers. His head bobbed along the vibrations in the headphones. Satisfied with the ambient noise, he turned towards the ten-inch television set in front of him. “Yo, Carlos!” He whistled. “Go see if they’re still talking ‘bout us.”

His brother outstretched his arms, unable or unwilling to step out of his seat. “What else would they be talking about? Turn it on yourself!”

For a brief moment, Lúcio’s brows connected above tired eyes. Sighing, he walked around the booth and squatted to better see the grainy picture on the set. As he looked for the Atlas news, Andre managed to find the bottle of dirt-cheap champagne they stashed away for the mission.

“Hey, when do we pop this bottle?” He asked, scratching at the seal covering the cork. “And how’d you get this gold shit off?”

_– going through with the operation. Vishkar correspondents –_

“Shh!” Lúcio summoned them around the screen. “Listen.”

It was as though the television was a portal to another universe. The Toads huddled as one, squinting and staring into a single dot – sand Carlos who, again, refused to move. They awaited the news with bated breath; individual heartbeats catching in their throats. The newscaster spoke in a cold, calm tone befitting of a journalist, though she did not seem to be too grim about the incident. In the world, one would need to kill three people to cause a newscaster to change her tone of voice. Lúcio bit the skin of his thumb.

“There’s something ‘bout them journalists, man. Just wanna do her right on that desk.”

“Cameras running and all.”

“THIS JUST IN!” Andre cackled, his head twisting back until he was shushed again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m listenin’.”

_– no casualties, but resulting in seven hundred thousand dollars in property damages. The representative of Vishkar –_

“Seven hundred?!?”

“Times a thousand.”

“I _heard_.”

Lúcio’s hand was feverishly flapping in the air. “Shh!”

_– no intimidation tactics, calling them cheap and trite. The identities of the perpetrators are unidentifiable by security cameras, as the footage seems to emit a strange glow concentrated around the intruders’ faces._

“Camouflage frequency.” Carlos commended his brother, nodding. “ _Nice_.”

Lúcio returned the nod, eyes still on the report.

_In addition, Vishkar employees state that the invaders wore masks to hide their identity. However, eye witnesses report seeing an unmasked man outside of the building during the intrusion’s climax._

“I’d give _her_ a climax.”

Carlos scoffed. “Please. At this point, even your hands are pretending to be asleep.”

_The following is a clip taken by a civilian._

The Toads chuckled at the sight of the shaky smartphone camera capturing an architech chasing Lúcio across a bridge of hard light. He skated and twisted out of her sight as she fired particles of pure light. Some caught his clothing, sizzling through it. “Oh my God,” said an impassive watcher standing beside the recorder. Zooming on their faces, the camera managed to capture the woman’s frustrated expression. Lúcio’s visage, however, was masked with a bright flash, as though his face was the sun itself.

Lúcio smiled to himself. They delivered a message to the people _and_ managed to keep their identities hidden. All in all, a good day.

Andre managed to pop open the champagne. The cork flew into the television screen, cracking it until the image distorted and warped.

“Hey! Watch it!”

The hunched man poured frothy liquor across the floor, shouting profanities as he tried to catch most of it in his mouth. “Fuck yeah! Who’s the boss now, bitch?”

“That’s just phase one,” Lúcio reminded. “Next thing we need is to – HEY!” His thick dreadlocks became soaked with champagne as Andre dumped it over him. His eyes, his cheek, his shirt and shoes were covered with amber-colored liquid, which smelled a lot like strawberries for some odd reason. Either that was what champagne smelled like, or that was what the cheap stuff smelled like. Either way it tasted delicious. He licked his lips and yanked the bottle away from his companion, taking the first real chug to his crew’s cheering.

Their leader took away the nozzle and gasped with delight. He wiped away his wet lips with his forearm, proffering the bottle which soon left his hands. “D’ja get any glasses?”

“Glasses?” Andre took a quick swig and passed it forward. “Why’d we need glasses?”

Carlos spoke up from his seat as he unpacked a slim silver tablet. “We aren’t gonna pass the bottle around, are we?” He pulled up his holo-projecting gloves, wiggling his fingers until they fit. “Don’t wanna taste anything your nasty mouth touched.”

“Don’t kiss ya momma.”

“What?”

“In that case, don’t kiss ya momma.”

“Fuck off.”

“Carlito,” Lúcio said, fully aware of how much his brother hated the nickname, “get us into Vishkar sometime this week, ‘kay?” He chuckled, but his brother did not take this lightly.

With his stubby, oddly fast fingers, he spread out the tablet until it was as tall as he was. There he began to code, filling out the space of four square feet within thirty seconds. “You don’t get water to boil by telling it to hurry.”

 “Ya sure you can get us into their servers?”

“The place had a fortified firewall, seven proxies, hacker-seeking rootkits…” He moved his fingers from the holographic panel and grinned; his eyes the picture of malice. “Easy as pie.”

“When you’re done,” Andre said, “you gotta help me in my game.” He drank more of the champagne, revenge on his mind. “I’m playing this girl in a tournament tomorrow and she’s wicked hot so I gotta impress her with my gaming skills. So if you could hack the game for me or….”

“I can’t help you with _Starcraft_. You get good or you get lost.”

“Man, you don’t understand how fine this girl. I get all distracted when she talks strategy to me.”

“You’re gross. I saw her Let’s Play. She’s looks twelve.”

“Nuh-uh. Korean girls always look younger. All we know she could be old as balls.”

“So now you’re racist _and_ gross.”

“At least I ain’t fat.”

Carlos drew some hot air into his left nostril. Leaning back into his seat, he grabbed at the holographic screen with all ten fingers and carefully placed it against the wall. There, he felt around the sandpaper paint, trying to get the feel of where he could position the projection. His fingers pulsated in forest green ripples; Vishkar’s domain was flashing below his fingertips. “Yo. Lúcio.” His older brother turned around, dreadlock swaying across his shoulder. Carlos’ wide, inquisitive eyes took in the gory details of the room they dwelled in, not finding any corner particularly neat. “Where do we station the screen?”

The DJ ran a finger against his soul patch. “Hmm…” After brief consideration, he realized that the only way to make the place look clean was to show as little of it as possible. He walked up over to his bed and threw all the clothing from the covers to the ground. Then, with two perfunctory strokes, he flattened the black sheets. “There.” He ticked a thumb at the wall behind him. “Put the screen here. You three,” he cast three fingers at Andre and the twins, Artur and Charo. “You stand over there. Uh, get me the frog head. It’s over there by the pile of beer bottles. The other one.”

Andre groaned as he folded his body and reached across the amber bottles to find Ribbit – the unofficial mascot of the Toads; a silver frog-shaped helmet complete with headphones and a friendly little smile. Lúcio wore it during his street performances before. Luckily, his street credit was not renown enough for the disguise to become recognizable nationwide. The head flew into Lúcio’s hands and the smooth, silvery surface glinted in the streaks of sun peering through wooden blinds.

Carlos pushed the holographic panel across the wall. In a moment, it spun around the bedroom, finally landing to the side where they wanted it to. His fingers danced about the air, entranced. As Lúcio sat on the bed, he urged him not to touch the boombox.

“We really gotta do something about that thing,” the DJ whined under the guise of a chrome frog. “My back is killing me.”

“Look, it’s the best I can do on a budget. You want something sleek and light? Give me twenty grand and I’ll see what I can work with. Charo, turn off the music for a sec, we want this to look professional.”

Though Charo walked to the booth and stopped the beat, Lúcio still heard it in his mind. His ears pulsed with vivid colors, his eyes saw the floor rise. He shut his eyes and shook his head, dispelling the phantom noise. “Okay then,” he said in a cheerful tone, rendered melodic and synthetic by the helmet. “How do we look?”

With a flick of his gloved wrist, Carlos displayed a mirror image of them on the monitor. Lúcio in his disguise, on screen with his hands on his knees. Andre, Charo and Artur stood behind the foot of the bed; their heads uncovered but cut off so only their bright clothes could be seen. It was dark and silent; to an untrained eye, the crew was stationed in a professional abode, and not some young adult’s bedroom. It was the best they could do on short notice. Frankly, for Vishkar, he couldn’t put in the effort.

“We lookin’ good?”

His crew expressed various degrees of agreement.

“Awesome. Vishkar online?”

“Doing damage control, most likely. That prick Korpal will be easy to find.”

“Sweet.” As he rolled his shoulders back, he felt something crack. His body felt like a crumpled ball of newspaper. One of these days, he should actually listen to his father’s advice and get some sleep.

No time for that now. There were pushbacks to negotiate.

“Send them a message. You guys ready?”

Again. Varying degrees of enthusiasm, followed by Andre’s “Well, actually…”

“Sending feedback in three… two…”

 _One_ , Carlos mouthed.

Sanjay Korpal, as well as a handful of his red-eyed associates, appeared huddled around an oval meeting room desk. Vishkar towers hovered in its center, in their miniature model cyan glory. Lúcio recognized the person who formed it almost immediately – her striking brown eyes and shiny black hair pulled up in a smart hairstyle. Her skin was a luxurious shade of brown, and with her silk-smooth hair it reflected pure sunlight, glowing golden in the midst of dreary blue.

As many people did, Sanjay looked at the projection on their wall. His eyes centered on Ribbit’s – the mask’s blank circles, which were half an inch above Lúcio’s own eyes. The woman, however… her stare hit direct bullseye. It was an unusual instinctive response to seeing a man with a frog’s head appear uninvited on a wall. She seemed unmoved, almost indifferent.

A node in his gullet swelled up, and he imagined that he should have cleared his throat beforehand. Luckily, the harmonic sing-song filter emitting from Ribbit’s speakers rendered his groggy voice more pleasing to the listeners.

“People of Vishkar. We are the Toads.” He tented his fingers as he saw them stand and watch with rapt attention. “We have infiltrated your company to bring the message of civilian resistance. Our neighborhoods and communities will not fall into the hands of corporate greed. We have seen many troubling things during our raid. Consider our visit your first and final warning.”

“Dude, nice speech,” Andre whispered. Charo shushed him with a swift kick to the shin.

Sanjay, a clean-cut man in his mid-thirties, straightened himself and spoke through a guarded grin. “Toads, is it? We welcome you to our facility. I must assure you, we do not take kindly to intruders. Today’s security breach was an isolated incident and you will not wreak havoc in this company again.” His chest jutted out. Jaws and fists tightened, the man’s voice became a low, guttural command. “Disconnect immediately. You’d be wise to compensate the damage you caused to the people of Rio de Janeiro.”

“The people of Rio have spoken against you – _we_ are the people of Rio! We represent the public uprising. How dare you? How dare you burn our neighborhoods, cast our people out of their homes, and then say you are contributing anything to them?”

“We are contributing to them,” the tall woman with silken hair stepped forward and declared. Her face was reminiscent of a sculpture; an angular visage with all the features one could find in some vintage actress. A sleek jawline, high cheekbones, and a stare which could cut through ice. “We are making the world a better place. We –”

Sanjay’s lifted hand silenced her. She swallowed her words and let him speak. His posture was straight, stiff as a board, and his clenched fists laid upon the small of his back. “We will not tolerate your intimidation techniques any longer. You will be found. Authorities will be involved.”

“You involve your authorities in everything!” Lúcio shouted, and the speakers of his helmet rendered hi outcry a shrill, incoherent noise. Charo winced behind him, biting her lip. On the other side of the screen, the Indian woman shut her eyes tightly and refused to open them until she heard the following, tranquil statement. “We have crime fighters serving as curfew enforcers. They police what we eat, what we watch, what we listen to…”

He counted away the items on his fingers, each item raising the level of his fury. By the time he was done, he spoke normally, but his heart beat so hard against his lungs that he struggled to keep his breathing steady. “You are exploiting the people you were supposed to benefit. We have become nothing to you. We’re cheap labor you need to supervise. We’ve had enough!”

The woman narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. “Our architechs –”

“We spent decades,” Sanjay interrupted, “working to repair your community. The Omnic crisis ruined the world, and Vishkar singlehandedly –”

“Excuse yourself.”

The speaker stopped in his tracks, lips still parted as he wondered what to say next. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes went wide. “Excuse… me?”

“Not to me. To her.” Lúcio jolted his head to the side, gesturing at the woman. “What’s your name?”

She was still as her coworkers watched her. A hand pressed down on her chest and she cleared her throat. “Satya Vaswani.”

“Satya,” Lúcio said, “why do you think Vishkar benefits our community?”

“Well it’s obvious,” Sanjay began. “We have established a multi-national –”

“My God,” said the robotic voice within the head of a silver frog. “Will you let her talk? It’s like you’ve never negotiated before. The person who talks is the person the opponent is most likely to like.”

Satya’s eyes widened. “Oh. My.” A deep breath entered through her teeth, and what ensued was a ricochet of opinions.

“Well… hard light manipulation is a skill possessed by few and practiced by fewer. It’s painstakingly generated but once a person become proficient in it, they can cut down time of building by as much as eighty percent. Haven’t you ever wanted to own something, but there was no foreseeable way of acquiring it? Hard light makes it possible for humans to bend reality. Order and harmony are the pillars of a functioning society, and are what we go by in Vishkar. Discord leads to crime and misery – tell me, when was the last time you heard of crime sprees in Vishkar-operated neighborhoods?”

“You can’t have much crime if you imprison people for as little as hanging out outside after ten in the evening.” Lúcio’s fingers tapped along his knees, his shoulders falling. “What about you? What has hard light given to you that you are so adamant to support a blood-sucking corporation?”

Sanjay opened his mouth.

The blank circular eyes of Lúcio’s helmet shot right at him, catching the movement of his tongue as he tried to reply.

Sanjay closed his mouth, and looked over to his associate.

Satya, for the longest time, seemed lost. It was obvious that her speech was a ploy; something drilled in the minds of hard light manipulators since they were children in training. When asked for a personal experience, her mind was blank. Eyes scanned the monochrome meeting room, inspecting the walls and pillars and tables, whose transparency reminded her faintly of glass. Nothing, not even her clothing could let her believe that walls were anything but walls, tables were anything but tables, and that terrorists were anything but terrorists regardless of what their tactics were.

As she was about to surrender her word to a coworker, her beautiful browns landed on the smooth chrome of her white arm. Hard light, moving on its own. She never felt the need to practice flexing a thumb. It came naturally, flowing like water, each move mastered with no effort on her part. The appendage – the attachment she no longer classified as such, became an integral component of her person.

She would have been lost without her light bending.

With nothing to add, she shoved Lúcio her robotic arm. “Hard light has given me agency over my body. It benefit me. It can benefit others if they embrace change. With the community’s approval, we can make the world a better place.”

Lúcio and Satya noticed that her hand lacked a pinky finger. What remained of it was a stump; white mass molten into her palm. Satya was reminded of her molted gown. With a flick of her wrist, her white finger grew again, and she bent it into her palm.

The Toads' leader was not convinced, but the story made him quieter, at least for a minute. His head turned to Sanjay. “You have committed crimes against the favela after you took burned our homes. That is a transgression that Brazil does not forget. We require compensation, and for you to disband.”

“Absurd. Vishkar stays where it always has.”

“It can fall. Hard light is unstable.”

“Ha!” The speaker shook his head; pearly teeth exposed between thin tan lips. “Doubtful. It’s s sturdy as any other material and thrice as reliable. Any wall cracks under a barrage of bullets – only hard light has the capacity to fire back.”

“True. But no other wall breaks when you play music to it.”

Sanjay continued his smug grin. The corners of his lips fell downwards, in slow motion. The longer his face contorted, the more his eyes glazed. “You’re lying.”

“My fellow Toads have established a frequency which makes hard light decompose without the will of benders. One tone, and your hard light head pieces melt into your ears, ringing all the while. Bridges crumble, clothing melts, walls shatter. If that’s the best you can provide for my home and my friends, I want none of it.” His head turned to Satya, who examined her newly-grown finger. “Your coworker can testify to my claim. She witnessed how hard light reacts to the frequency first-hand. Isn’t that right, Satya?”

She had not thought of it, but the note made sense. He blasted his boombox and suddenly the photon particles did not hit him. The bridge she built crashed. She felt the hard light on her body shrink. The dress which draped her body became mottled with holes. Her coworkers watched her, eager to hear her reply. “Yes,” she said, and glowered at the frog’s head she recognized. “Yes, I did. I remember how you sent me falling.”

“Don’t take it personally. I didn’t want to hurt you – I was on my way and you came after me. Which, by the way, is the best case of determination I’ve ever seen. Ya sure you weren’t trying to chase me down for something other than incarceration?”

He winked under his helmet but realized she couldn’t see the gesture. _Oh, right._

Sharp, finely-manicured eyebrows connected above glaring eyes. “Pig.”

“So yeah. Back to my original point.” Lúcio kicked back and crossed his legs, tenting the points of his fingers. “You leave the favela. I don’t melt your entire infrastructure with a trap remix. We good?”

“No, we aren’t,” Satya said. Her forearms tightened; veins bulged as she tried not to run and hit the screen. “Hard light is improving the lives of millions. I’m sorry that doesn’t give you the freedom to terrorize your community. Vishkar stays, and this is non-negotiable.”

“Ya know we can pretty much decompose all things hard light, right? It’s not the end-all, be-all of construction.”

“Regardless, a city of hard light can stand.”

“Really?” There was mirth in his voice; an almost boyish joy as soon as she said the words. “You really think so? Maybe we should sweeten the pot to this deal.”

Her eyes were blank beneath her furrowed brow. “How so?”

“Do you know which frequency makes hard light go _sploot_? Well, we can talk that out. If you convince me there are more benefits to Vishkar than there are drawbacks, I’ll let you know what the frequency is.”

Carlos cursed in the background as Lúcio waved his hand at him. It was their universal sign for “don’t worry, I have an angle”. The Brazilian watched Satya consider the offer, and he saw the flash of doubt in her eyes.

“What’s the catch?”

“You’ll have to prove it to me on the venue and time of my choice. No weapons, no guards. Just me and you – consider it a date.”

If the doubt flashed in her eyes second prior, it burned like a light tower then. Sanjay interrupted her exclamation. “You are a manipulating extortionist! We do no business with people like you! And why do you insist on her debating with you?”

“While the rest of you ran around shooting guns in the hopes you’ll hit something, she built light bridges and teleporters to catch up. If there’s anyone who understands hard light it’s her. And if anyone’s able to excuse your tyrannical sweatshop of a company, it’s her!”

 Satya was raging. Flattered, yes, but mostly raging. “I will not… meet you.”

“Sure you don’t wanna think about it? I can give you three days to consider it and then… well, I’d suggest investing in some non-hard light headphones ‘cuz the beats are gonna be loud and fast.”

Satya and her coworker exchanged a look which meant everything but looked like nothing. With slanted, tired eyes, she looked at the screen and sighed. “We’ll consider your offer… you arrogant hoodlum.”

“Just for that, the offer’s going up to three days.”

“BUT –!”

“Would you like to make it five?”

She stopped, her tongue tied.

All Lúcio could do was smile beneath his hot helmet. “I await your reply. Honestly, I’m thinkin’ we’re being reasonable. Three meetings in exchange for keeping most of your company intact… damn. That’s just good economy right there. But I’ve got music to record and you’ve got interviews to give. Bye guys!”

He waved and ordered Carlos to end transmission. Puffing and gasping for clean air, he removed his helmet, revealing a hot, balmy forehead and a nest of tangled hair. Hi brother finally freed himself from the clutches of the abominable beanbag chair, and was beyond furious for his attempt at negotiating.

“A date? You would sell out everything – everything I worked for, just for a damn date?!”

“It’s economical,” he said.

“You keep saying that word. I’m not sure it means what you think it means.”

“C’mon, what’s gonna happen? They’ll know the frequency and then what? They can’t change how to create hard light. They’re not God, even though they act like one.”

Carlos huffed and turned nervously on his heel, wondering what else to add. “So now what? We wait and see if she’ll agree to go out with you?”

“Best case scenario, she does and I convince her that the favela’s worth keeping around, warts and all. She brings over the message and they stop meddling in our business. Plus they’d still be vulnerable to the frequency so that’s just added protection.”

“And what’s the worst case scenario?”

“I’m sent to Hell in a handbasket by a stunner with legs like a grasshopper.” He thought this was funny. Carlos did not.

The DJ’s heavy body plopped on his bed, his arms crossed behind his head. “I dunno why. But I’ve got a damn good feeling about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: a quick break so I could prepare my finals. Even more tsundere once I get back - oh, joy.


End file.
